The dwarves stood in the south courtyard with their backs straight and their eyes forward. Their armor was scratched and dulled from long drills in the dust, their faces lined from days without proper rest. At first in Harbinth, people had stared at them, surprised to see a band of mountain folk walk the city streets. That surprise had faded, but so had the easy excitement in the dwarves’ own eyes.

  They had settled into something harder, quieter. The spark was not gone, it had simply sunk deeper, like a coal pressed beneath ash.

  Commander Ennett paced before them, her cloak heavy with dust, her boots leaving lines in the grit. She carried no parchment, no scribe trailed at her back. She didn’t need them. Her presence was enough.

  “Your reports have been strong,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “You’ve done your part without question. But the days ahead will not be like the ones behind.”

  The dwarves said nothing. Thora Greyfell dipped her chin in a slow nod, her mattock resting against her shoulder. Bram Flintbrace shifted his stance, and Farin Duskshade’s fingers brushed the hilt of her pick-axe, but none spoke.

  Ennett’s eyes moved over them, measuring. “We’re entering the unknown now,” she went on. “The horns have sounded. The city stirs for war, yet no enemy stands at our gates. That means every hour we keep watch, every hour we hold this city ready, matters more than a blade in the hand.”

  She stopped pacing. “I’m instituting mandatory rest. Half shifts during the day. Two rotations through the night. No one argues this. You can’t fight if you fall down from exhaustion. I’ll not see a good dwarf die because pride kept him from closing his eyes.”

  A low murmur rippled through the line. Dwarves weren’t used to being told when to sleep. They were stonefolk, workers, miners, fighters. They chose their hours by the task at hand, not by command. But no one challenged her. Ennett had earned their respect in the way she spoke, with metal, not pretense.

  “You’ll take new orders at dawn,” she said at last. “Until then, rest or drill. That’s all. Dismissed.”

  The dwarves saluted with small motions, not sharp but steady, before they began to break apart. Some headed toward the benches at the courtyard’s edge. Others moved toward the shadow of the walls, where they could sharpen blades or sit in silence.

  Ennett turned on her heel and walked across the square. The wind from the harbor carried the bite of salt and something else now, rot, faint but certain. She frowned. A storm was building. She could feel it in her bones, the way her joints stiffened with each gust.

  She had almost reached the Guildkeeper’s canopy near the harbor when she stopped short. A boy stood just off the main path, as still as a post. He held a small loaf of bread in both hands, clutching it like it was too fragile to touch. He reached it out toward Ennett. “From Sister Lyzelle.” His shoulders were thin, his hair uneven, his face pale from nights spent awake.

  “Velthur, isn’t it?” she asked.

  The boy flinched at the sound of his name, then nodded quickly. His eyes were wide, not fearful exactly, but searching. He seemed ready to ask a dozen questions and unsure if he was allowed even one.

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  Ennett slowed her stride, then crouched slightly so they were nearer in height. She rested one gauntleted hand against her knee, the other dangling at her side.

  “You look like someone who wants to help,” she said. Her voice was softer now, almost kind. “But not sure how.”

  Velthur opened his mouth. No words came. He shut it again, staring at the bread in his hands as she closed them around the bread and pushed them back toward his chest.

  Ennett studied him for a moment. His silence reminded her of herself when she was his age, listening more than speaking, holding words until they mattered. She leaned a little closer.

  “I was an only child,” she said, speaking slowly, like she was pulling the memory from a locked chest. “My father wanted a boy. He never hid it. He thought a boy would be easier to raise. Fewer questions, more answers. That sort of thinking.”

  Velthur’s eyes flicked up to hers. He didn’t interrupt.

  “So I joined the city watch,” she continued. “Told myself I’d prove him wrong. That I could take a harder hit, run longer miles, draw a blade faster than anyone. I thought if I bled enough, he’d look at me and say he was proud.”

  Her mouth curved into something between a smile and a grimace. “Years later, he did say it. Said he was always proud. Just didn’t know how to say it right.”

  She let out a slow breath, then straightened again. “He would’ve liked you and your father. You’ve got that kind of bond.”

  Velthur shifted on his feet. His voice was small when he finally spoke. “He says I’m strong.”

  Ennett’s smile softened. “He’s not wrong.”

  For a long moment, neither spoke. The courtyard clattered with dwarves moving away, voices low, boots striking stone, but in the space between them there was only quiet.

  At last, Ennett tapped her chin with one finger, as though weighing an idea. “You want a task? Something real?”

  Velthur’s answer came quickly, almost before she had finished the question. He nodded.

  “There’s an old clerical office in the temple,” she said. “When the priests left, they ran fast. Papers everywhere. Ledgers. Scrolls. Ceremonial things. Might be some worth saving. I want you to go tomorrow. Take a sack. Gather anything that looks important.”

  Velthur blinked. “Me?”

  “You,” she confirmed. Her voice grew firm again, but it held warmth beneath the iron. “You’ll be the protector of those things. That’s your task. Keep them safe until the danger passes. And if someone questions you, tell them I deputized you. You’ll be watch, for this work.”

  The boy’s fingers tightened around the bread. His eyes shone in the dim light, not with fear but with something close to pride.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Ennett shook her head slightly. “No. Thank you.”

  For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, she felt something shift inside her. Not just duty, not the cold weight of command. Something warmer. A small reminder that hope had not yet been stamped out of Harbinth.

  She turned to go, her cloak brushing across the stones.

  “Commander,” Velthur’s voice called behind her.

  She paused.

  “Did your father get out?” he asked. “On the boats?”

  For a moment, Ennett didn’t answer. Then she spoke, her voice low but steady.

  “Yes,” she said. “He made it out.”

  She did not turn back to see the boy’s face. She walked on, her eyes fixed on the lanterns swaying in the wind.

  The truth stayed buried inside her, heavy but familiar. Years ago now. May his soul rest in peace.

  Behind her, Velthur stood still in the square. The loaf of bread was clutched to his chest as if it had become more than food, something like a promise, or maybe a shield.

  Ennett disappeared into the tents and salted wind, her jaw set. For the first time in days, though, her heart felt something almost forgotten. Something like peace.